


call it a ritual

by orphan_account



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-13
Updated: 2010-05-13
Packaged: 2017-10-09 10:37:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/86356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They start something in Iraq. It isn't anything prolonged, stolen moments and jacks that leave their dicks stripped and sore from the sand and not enough spit, not enough anything, not enough time or privacy or skin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	call it a ritual

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from the Wolf Parade song of the same name.

They start something in Iraq. It isn't anything prolonged, stolen moments and jacks that leave their dicks stripped and sore from the sand and not enough spit, not enough anything, not enough time or privacy or skin. But they start something, sneaking off like there isn't any danger in it, like there isn't so much danger in it, Ray's eyes scraping over his whenever there's a moment to escape from humdrum and shooting, from sleeping tucked up near Trombley, near Colbert, near Reporter's observance, too dangerous by half.

They start something, and they don't talk about it, don't until the cigarette factory, Walt's cock in Ray's hand and Ray's mouth pressed against his jaw.

"I wanna get you on white sheets," Ray mumbles into his ear. "I'm going to lick you open until you're begging me, until you're practically sobbing, and then I'm going to open you wide on my fingers before there isn't anything you want more than my cock in you. Then I'm going to shove your legs up onto my shoulders and fuck you until you don't even remember your name, just mine."

Walt maybe whimpers, and definitely comes all over Ray's hand, and Ray has this look on his face that makes Walt flush the whole next day, but it's worth it.

When they're both back, both stateside, wandering around Pendleton without a purpose, waiting to be sent home, or sent back, or anything, anything that isn't limbo, Walt can't look Ray in the eye. It's like the whole thing wasn't real in the desert, like there are excuses that can be made, combat stress or some sort of Iraq insanity or something that explains why Walt, who has a girlfriend who just kept writing, who he talked to on the phone when he got back and didn't have much to say to, why Walt let his hands scrabble on Ray's shoulders and his cock leak into Ray's hand.

Ray keeps giving him these looks, looks Walt thinks mean something, though he's not really sure what that is. Ray gives him these looks, but he doesn't say anything, not anything about it, not anything of consequence, even for him, so Walt figures it's something they picked up, and now, back in California, surrounded by sand of a different sort, a familiar ocean, now they're putting it down.

Walt puts it down. Walt puts it down almost successfully, manages to forget it, somewhat, forget the glancing presses of Ray's mouth against his skin, not quite a kiss. He puts it down, and he goes about his life like none of it never happened, like he's still the same person who went into war, and didn't leave it a murderer and a fag. It's far easier to pretend than to deal with it.

It's almost gone, a sliver that stands beside the car, stands beside the bodies on the road, the bad guys and the little kids, all a mess of things he's leaving behind, except then they're all loosely congregated, the whole lot of them, men Walt can't leave behind even if he wanted to, because the LT is moving on in a way Walt couldn't even if he tried. And they throw him a party, because that's what you do when someone is smart enough to escape before it kills you, physically or otherwise, someone is smart enough to make something of himself that isn't this mess.

It's in Poke's backyard because he has a backyard, because he has a wife and a daughter and a barbeque, and there's a sense of family to it that Walt hasn't felt since he left Virginia, left everything behind. Poke's a hardass and a good man to have beside you, and it's weird to reconcile that with him as a husband, him as a father, surprisingly tender when his daughter comes out, a whole different side that you can't see caked in dust and sand and weeks of ball sweat. It's calming, but it's awkward, too, all of them dressed like civilians, drinking beer and eating burgers and acting like they hadn't gone through hell together and somehow gotten out alive.

The burgers are good and the company is better, all of them pulled together, Rudy and Pappy in a little huddle that makes Walt feel like things are right again, the two of them standing together like Pappy never went away. Lilley's standing close to Poke, talking low to his daughter like he's some prize uncle or something, and he probably is, he probably will be, they're all stuck together in this until they choose to leave. Until they have to.

Ray and Brad are together, because they're always together, and that makes it easier to avoid, Ray in clothes that show glimpses of the tattoos underneath, clothes that wouldn't take an extended amount of time and a lot of determination to shuck, just a thin cotton shirt that Walt can see himself pushing up to get at his chest, press his mouth against the ink and the skin and the smell of soap and sweat.

But then Colbert's drawn over to the LT like he always has been, some sort of homoerotic moth to the flame, but Walt can't throw stones here, because he's got more to tell than anyone else, he thinks, knows the cut of Rays hips and the feeling of his cock in his hand, knows the want better than anyone else. And he knows well enough to stay away now, but Ray apparently doesn't, Ray doesn't seem to get the message, because Ray's wandering over, casual, like they have anything left to say to one another.

"Hey," Ray says, fidgets, all nerves suddenly, and Walt watches as he takes a step closer, just a little too close. "So," Ray says, swallows, and Walt watches the bob of his throat, watches his hand clutching a sweating bottle of beer, watches everything that isn't Ray's eyes. "Do you remember what I said?"

"You say a lot of things, Person," Walt says. "I learned how to tune them out."

Ray rolls his eyes and leans closer, not close enough to seem casual at all, not that anyone seems to be looking, but it's not safe, like Ray shucked the gun and the MOPP and suddenly regs just disappeared for him. Walt should take a step back, because he remembers regs, he remembers exactly what they'd mean, but he doesn't move.

"I meant about the white sheets," Ray says, his breath hot against Walt's jaw, and it takes a moment before Walt connects it, and then he's flushing, obvious, knows he is, cheeks going hot. Ray's mouth quirks. "I mean, there's a motel about fifteen minutes away from here."

"Ray," Walt says, and he means to continue with 'back the fuck off', but it trails away into nothing, just him looking at Ray, too close and looking just a little too open; he always looks too open, wears everything bright on his face so that Walt can't pretend not to know what Ray wants. And he knows exactly what Ray wants. "Okay," he says instead, dumbly, because it's stupid, it's so fucking stupid, but he wants it anyway.


End file.
